


is it stupid (that i love you)

by hellstrider



Series: Ice & Iron [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha Tormund, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Jon is FIESTY, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Blood, Modern AU, New werewolf Jon Snow, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Prostate Massage, Tormund POV, Werewolf Mates, Ygritte is The Wingman, and also a brat, and we love it, cause u know werewolves, whew, which i find easier for some reason lmfao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 15:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: “We have time. I’m just glad he’s still fucking breathing at the moment.”“That’s fair,” Ygritte hums. “Still. Havin’ a true mate is a rare gift. Don’t let it go to waste, big brother. You’re the bravest asshole of a wolf I’ve ever known. Don’t let the human in you take your claws away, eh?”





	is it stupid (that i love you)

**Author's Note:**

> i love them as wolves,
> 
> anyway,, ,, ,,,
> 
> title from gold by shallows

Jon Snow takes to being a wolf as naturally as anyone he’s ever seen. Only a day after the cunts of the Watch tried to rip him away from Tormund, the little wolf is flush with energy, ready to run and chase and hunt. There’s a new edge to him that Tormund thinks has always been there but has been too battered back by the circumstances in his life to show itself until now, until his teeth sank into Jon’s skin and sang the wolf from his soul.

As much as Tormund wants to let Jon run free and chase him through their rocky kingdom beneath the mother moon, the fuckers that tried to take him away are still out there. No amount of hunt or chase could ever tempt Tormund to risk Jon Snow, and so he remains patient and soothes Jon’s most restless moments with growls and firm but gentle hands over his hair.

He almost went – almost bit into Jon and then left him for the hunt but his second stopped him, and he’s glad she did. Tormund belongs here, belongs with Jon as he grows into his wolf-bones and becomes strong again. Val is the only one he trusts with this, is the only one who will be the proper kind of savage when she tears into the ones that hurt his mate.

And there’s no denying it. Not now. Tormund’s known since before he felt the silver bullet slam into Jon Snow. There never seemed to be time to put the words to it, never seemed to be time to tell him. And then he nearly lost him.

“Keep your boy safe,” Val had told him, yellow eyes burning like sunlight. “You have me for a reason, Tor. Put that mate of yours in your den and don’t fucking let him go again.”

He doesn’t intend to.

On the second night, Tormund does take Jon out into the open air as night falls and their goddess rises, but not to hunt; he watches Jon’s face shine with a rapture he knows too well, watches the sacred light bathe his pale skin and chase all the shadows away. Jon gazes up at the moon and breathes in the world, _their_ world, from the sea to the highlands, and Tormund’s belly turns.

The pub in the center of the complex serves as their gathering place, and his Wildlings are already there when Tormund pushes through the vast oak doors, Jon right behind him. No music pulses through the wooden floorboards, no chatter fills the air; his wolves rise as their new packmate enters, and Jon’s eyes go wild around the edges as they burn silver as the moon.

Tormund slides a hand over the back of his neck and growls deep, reminding the new wolf he’s right beside him. But Jon, he thinks, was a wolf born to become a man, not the other way around. Jon shoots him a bold, bright glance and then moves to weave through his new family with a confidence that has Tormund glowing with a fierce, feral pride.

And then one of his ‘wolves steps forward, her two young pups clinging to their mother as they gaze up at Jon Snow. Karsi’s eyes are over-bright as Jon approaches, and the air grows thick and heavy as she reaches out with a hand barely concealing claws to press her palm right over Jon’s heart.

They know what Jon Snow died for, but of all his ‘wolves, it’s Karsi who approaches him first; Karsi, who has lost her mate and two pups to the Crows, who knows firsthand what they all would have suffered had Jon not been theirs from the start. From the moment he set his gun down and shook Tormund’s hand instead of biting it, Jon Snow was theirs, and he died for it.

Karsi, her pups behind her and emotion twisting her brow, inhales sharp and quick as she drinks in Jon’s face. And then – and then, she flings her arms around Jon’s neck and the little wolf clutches her tight, one hand at the back of her head. Tormund lifts his chin, watching the dam break as the other ‘wolves converge to lay their hands over their newest packmate.

The scene playing out before him becomes a burst of sunlight inside his chest. They all move to scent Jon, hands over his hair, over his shoulders, but never at his neck, where the scar of Tormund’s bite stands bright red over his skin. That is for their alpha and their alpha only, but Tormund knows he’ll never bare it to him.

Jon Snow was never meant to be a beta. An alpha Jon Snow was born, and an alpha he remains.

Ygritte’s scent washes over him, clover-coffee-lilacs, and Tormund looks down to his sister. She's beautiful in the strangest of ways, with her wild green eyes like the highlands of their land and the red hair of the mother they shared. She tilts her head, clever gaze flush with a smile as she watches Jon with the others.

“Will you tell him now?” she asks quietly, speaking low enough it won’t reach Jon. “I hope you do, big brother, before I decide to take him for myself.”

Tormund growls low and deep and his sister laughs as she bumps her elbow into his ribs, shaking her head. It’s an empty threat, the kind only a sibling can make.

“He comes to me,” Tormund says then, "I already took away his choice to become one of us. Don’t need him thinking he owes me.”

Ygritte snorts, rolling her eyes. “You just want him crawlin' and beggin' for it. Don’t give me that look. Bet he’s fuckin’ gorgeous on his knees.”

“ _Careful,_ little sister.”

Ygritte’s scent changes, becomes sharper, and if her ears were out they’d be swiveling back. Though she’s been properly chastised, her smirk is still impish, and he reaches out to gently tug at a lock of her hair.

“Surprised you even let him out of your den.”

He looks to where Jon stands amongst his new family, tears on his grinning cheeks as the ‘wolves scent and laugh and hold onto him, and it brings a heat to the curve in Tormund’s spine.

“We have time. I’m just glad he’s still fucking breathing at the moment.”

“That’s fair,” Ygritte hums. “Still. Havin’ a true mate is a rare gift. Don’t let it go to waste, big brother. You’re the bravest asshole of a wolf I’ve ever known. Don’t let the human in you take your claws away, eh?”

And then she’s trailing through their pack, and Tormund’s belly floods with warmth as she tackles Jon in a hug that sends him staggering, laughter cresting through the air. Someone starts music and drinks are passed around as Jon melts into a space in their pack Tormund never knew was empty, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget just how this feels.

“They love you, Jon Snow,” Tormund tells him when they finally return to his den, and Jon is red-eyed and pink-nosed, his cheeks still wet with tears. He smells like _his,_ smells like _pack,_ and Tormund wants to _howl_ with the emotion bursting into his throat.

I _love you, Jon Snow,_ he thinks, and it feels as natural as breathing.

“It’s like you said,” Jon says hoarsely as he sinks down onto the sofa. “They’re mine now. I’d do it again. I’d do it a thousand times again.”

His heartbeat is so steady, and Tormund bows to nuzzle through his hair as Jon curls a hand into his shirt. The embers between them shudder and spit sparks and Jon practically purrs when he presses his face to Tormund’s throat. That night, Tormund falls asleep on the sofa, and wakes in the early hours to find Jon’s migrated to his bed instead, down to nothing but his tight black boxer-briefs as he burrows into the blankets that smell like the alpha.

Never has he had to take a cold shower at three in the fucking morning, not even when he was a young wolfling at the edge of the moon-fever. He spends two hours under the cold spray, trying to breathe through the instinct pulsing through him to _take-keep-mark-mate._

He doesn’t know if his little wolf knows what he’s doing, but he would bet he does; Jon will come to him and mean it, and until then, he’ll suffer this.

The next day, Tormund dithers over leaving Jon alone to head into town for more food for his little wolf. He would send someone else for the others, but this is his mate, and the mere thought of another wolf providing for him makes him want to lick blood from bone.

So he goes, even though Jon shoots him a dirty look when he insists he stay put. He leaves the little wolf sulking on the sofa after flashing alpha-gold eyes at him and he has to lean back against the wall outside to breathe through a raging hard-on, teeth wanting to turn to Jon’s nape as he pins him down.

He’s a bratty thing, Jon Snow is, but Tormund loves him fiercer for it.

Ygritte catches him on his way out of the garage and, after she wheedles about needing some sort of new shampoo at the market, he begrudgingly lets his sister clamber onto the back of his bike and she babbles the entire way there.

He regrets letting her come about ten seconds into their shopping excursion. Boxes of condoms keep appearing in the cart, along with bottles of lube and, at one point, a chew toy he has to fight the urge not to tear apart in the middle of the grocery store.

“Never know what the kids are into these days,” Ygritte says when he shoves it all back into her arms. “You’re keepin’ him locked up, thought he could use something to occupy him.”

“I’m going to tear your guts out through your throat.”

“That’s _so_ mean.”

Tormund pays for their groceries and Ygritte’s stupidly expensive shampoo – “it gets all _frizzy_ otherwise,” – and once they’re secure in the saddlebags on his bike they speed back to the Northstar. The back of his neck hasn’t stopped fucking itching the entire time he’s been gone, and Jon’s scent still clings to his clothes but it’s not _enough._

His little wolf is waiting for them outside the garage. Ygritte snorts when his heart practically restarts at the sight of him, slipping off the bike before it’s even stopped with a gagging, “ _gross,”_ before vanishing with her shampoo. His scent must be sticky-sweet; he knows Jon’s is as soon as it hits him in full force, vanilla coating steel-winter-water.

Jon is also practically vibrating with energy as Tormund removes his helmet and kicks down the stand. He’s wearing one of Tormund’s sweatshirts, too big at the neck for him and too long in the arms and it _tugs_ at his heartstrings.

When the alpha nears he pitches a soft whine and shoves his face right up into his throat, hands fisted in his leather jacket. His hair is damp from the shower, smells like the shampoo he prefers, cedar and sage. It makes the wolf in him _sing._

“That was _fucking awful_ ,” Jon tells him, sounding petulant. “I’m going with you next time. _Don’t_ argue. And don’t _ever_ fucking give me those eyes again, I _hate_ that.”

Tormund slides a hand over his nape and some of Jon’s prickly irritation settles, though it’s still simmering right beneath his skin. Why it makes him go soft inside, he doesn’t know. He still wants to pin him for it, but definitely not in any way to stifle it out of him, and he really doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I can promise you that I hated seeing you bleeding out even more. You’re safer here.”

“And they’re still _out there,”_ Jon almost growls. “They were looking for _you._ I go with you, or you don’t fucking go _at all_.”

His rough tone makes Tormund want to bare his throat, and that – that’s not something he ever thought would ever happen again. He’s faced down plenty of other alphas in his tenure, but none have made him want anything other than the kill. Jon Snow makes his wolf whine, makes him want to kneel down before him and bow his head as if he were a king and Tormund his knight.

“Stubborn little wolf.”

“When it comes to your life? Yeah.”

That night, Val finally rings him while they watch shitty reality TV on the couch, the remnants of takeout on the coffee table and Jon’s feet in his lap. Tormund glances to the little wolf, who’s sleepy-eyed and mussy-haired, and gently moves his legs to rise and put the phone between ear and shoulder.

“Tell me you have good news.”

Tormund feels Jon’s eyes on him as he moves into the kitchen.

“ _Oh, now you know I wouldn’t call with anything less,”_ Val says. “ _They’ve holed up in some pit outside Amsterdam. Wun Wun is on guard outside but I’m getting hungry.”_

“How many?”

“ _No more than five.”_ Tormund’s fangs itch. _“I’ll bring back their wrinkly little leader, boss. Don’t you worry. The others though – the others are_ mine _.”_

“Leave nothing of them to burn,” he growls, and Val returns the snarl with a grin hanging on the end.

She hangs up then and Tormund shuts his eyes, nostrils flaring as the wolf inside him rises and gnashes its maw, aching for blood. Jon’s scent wafts over him then and Tormund turns as his little wolf approaches, arms folded over his chest and warm eyes like steel.

“She found them?”

“You heard her, Jon Snow. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

“She’s bringing Alliser here.”

"She is.”

Tormund drops his mobile on the counter and Jon steps in close, his scent better than whiskey as it washes over him. It makes his skin sing like he’s beneath the gentlest sun, makes his heart loud and quiet all at once. Jon looks so soft like this, with his hair pulled back into a mussy ponytail and his white t-shirt sleep-rumpled; he looks soft but hides a core of diamond.

“It will be your choice,” he says then, and Jon’s brow lifts. “If you command me to kill him, I will. If you want to bite through his throat, you can.”

A shadow flickers over Jon’s face. Tormund reaches out to nudge his chin with a curled finger and when Jon noses into his palm to scent him, his chest floods with impossible heat.

“I’m glad you stayed here,” Jon says. And then, darkly, “I don’t want you near them. I don’t want _any_ of us near them.”

The way he says _us_ makes Tormund’s throat capsize and his wolf howls in his chest, inspires a growl over his tongue. The little wolf puts his hands on Tormund then, curls his fingers into the ribbed fabric of his tank top. He loves how Jon clings to him like this, like Tormund is already his.

_Aren’t you, **alpha**?_

Jon’s brow furrows in that way it does when he’s making something far more complicated than it needs to be, his scent spiking with fear and anger and a whole myriad of things that Tormund never knew a person could feel at one time until he knew Jon Snow.

“You don’t have to decide a fate tonight, sweet thing,” Tormund tells him, and means it. “Or at all. You tell me you want to turn away from it, and you will. I offer this kill to you because it’s the one who wronged you, who hurt you. It’s no test.”

Jon’s lips twitch. “Read my mind, alpha?”

Tormund cups his chin. “Even if I could, I’d never need to. Not with you. I know you, Jon Snow.”

“Yeah,” Jon murmurs, gaze flickering to his lips and back. “Yeah, you do.”

Something like fire licks at the back of his throat. Jon’s eyes have always been intense in a way he’d never seen before he met him, always so fiery and _so fucking defiant_ , yet soft at the edges with a grief that Tormund is always wanting to dig into and bite away. His little wolf’s hands fall to his hips then and he’s pulled by the gravity between them, crowding Jon lazily back against the counter.

It was hard to resist him before, but now – Jon smells of the both of them in a way that he never did when he was human, scents curling together until he can’t pull them back apart. Jon bites his plush bottom lip, a challenge sparking through his eyes as his fingertips hook into his belt, and goosebumps rush up Tormund’s tattooed arms.

_Havin’ a true mate is a rare gift._

“I’m going to tear his throat out,” Jon says then, and the wolf inside Tormund’s chest _writhes._ “He wanted to take what was mine. And you _are_ mine, aren’t you?”

For a moment, he looks _feral._ It’s like being high, Tormund thinks, as Jon runs his hands up his arms and chases more gooseflesh up to his chest. His scent spikes with the dewy freshness of wanting, and a low, rolling whine vibrates through Tormund as his fangs beg to drop and dig into that porcelain throat. He splays a hand over Jon’s jaw and the little wolf hums, a satisfied, pleased scent washing over him.

“I’m yours, sweet thing,” he says hoarsely; “and what does that make me?” Jon asks, and Tormund is aching in his jeans.

Then the little wolf rolls his hips and something inside Tormund’s chest snaps, the wild and the instinct surging through him without abandon. He growls, “ _mine,”_ and it’s a bestial thing that makes Jon show his teeth.

Jon, he remembers through the haze, was a wolf who became a man. Not the other way around. He lifts his chin, so tauntingly close, and Tormund wants to make those pretty lips go blood red.

 _"Prove it_ ,” the little shit croons, and it’s all it takes.

Tormund sweeps him up from the floor, shoving aside ashtrays and bottles to drop him on the counter. Jon groans when their lips crush together, a burning, stinging thing that settles low in the base of his spine, and the little wolf strains up against him as his clever tongue pleads for more.

Cradling his nape, Tormund gives him what he pleads for, curling his tongue over Jon’s, his steel piercing clicking over Jon’s fangs, peeking out of his gums like he can’t keep them in. It makes his belly burn and his cock ache, makes his legs quiver. Never has he felt so strong and so weak all at once, and it’s _delightful._

It’s heat and it’s lightning, and the world peels away until all he knows is this; all he knows is the way Jon’s breath hitches when he yanks him close and the cadence of his deep, rolling moan when Tormund palms him through his obscenely tight jeans.  
           

“Do you fucking _paint_ these on?” he growls, pulling at his belt, and Jon laughs breathlessly.

Tormund shoves his shirt up then and dips to mouth over the starburst marking his chest, hating and loving it all at once. Jon keens, a sound that’s _just_ sex and he ruts into the little wolf’s thigh, growling out an answering moan against the scar of his bite in the junction of Jon’s throat.

He drags Jon away from the counter, staggering out of the kitchen. Lithe legs wrap immediately around his waist and Jon practically clambers up his chest, digging claws into his shoulders as he whines into Tormund’s mouth.

The feedback loop of their aligned emotions is better than any liquor he’s ever had, sweeter than sugar; Jon’s desire is like ocean air, like the sharpness right before a storm. It cracks through him like a whip and when he finally pushes Jon down to his bed, the little wolf laughs again as he shoves his jeans down his thighs. The scent of his sex makes Tormund’s mouth water, makes his cheekbones ache and his teeth grind until his jaw burns.

“Wondered how fucking long it would take,” Jon purrs then, nipping at Tormund’s lips, “wanted you to follow me into bed the other night. Did the cold shower _help_ , Tor?”

“ _Brat_ ,” Tormund growls. “You’ll pay for that one, sweet thing.”

He splays a hand over Jon’s flat belly, right over the band of his stupidly tight black boxer-briefs, and the little wolf groans against his ear when he peels them down. All he wants is to drink him in and so he does, ducking between Jon’s thighs, dusted with dark hair and strapped with lithe, wiry muscle. Tormund bites down the pale inside of one leg and Jon rips his shirt off over his head, arching so pretty when he reaches his cock and breathes out over it.

“You smell desperate.” He grins, hovering right over the weeping head. The musk of him threatens to choke him. “Did I make you desperate for it, little wolf?”

“Think that’s fucking obvious,” Jon bites out, and Tormund nips at his hip, then bites down with force. Jon _shouts,_ a throaty thing that makes his arms pebble and his cock jump and strain against his jeans. Then, Tormund is over him, and Jon gazes up at him, still so fierce through the glassy haze of need clouding his eyes.

He wants to see just how needy he can make him.

“Not nearly desperate enough,” Tormund murmurs, tracing the swell of his bottom lip with the tip of a claw. “Green, yellow, red. I ask you for a color, sweet thing, and you give it to me. You say wolfsbane and it’s all over. You understand me?”

Jon’s nostrils flare. He rolls his hips up, a languid movement that makes Tormund want to fight, and his grin is so cocky he needs to taste it. The little wolf moans against his pierced tongue and drags one of Tormund’s hands to his throat, though he still doesn’t bare it.

“You told me I was yours. Told you to prove it.” Jon crests his hips. “ _Alpha._ So prove it.”

Tormund rears back to peel his tank top over his head and strip away his belt. Jon’s gaze follows it and he smirks, popping the button of his jeans. He knows what Jon wants, what he’s trying to tempt out of him; it is a game and a battle, and they’re equally determined to win.

“It wouldn’t be strong enough, little wolf,” he says. “I’ll use my hands to bind you.”

“And you think you’re stronger?”

Tormund slides down one of Jon’s thighs and parts his teeth over the base of his cock, where his scent is strongest. It’s intoxicating, thick and masculine and all his, and Jon’s hands curl into the white sheets when Tormund drags his tongue up the thick vein running up to the gleaming head.

And then he grips Jon’s hips and flips him with ease, growling low and pleased at the mere sight of him on elbows and knees. He drags the barest hint of claw up the backs of Jon’s thighs and revels in the way they tremble, gaze sweeping down the elegant, muscled line of his back.

He chases the dips and valleys of Jon’s clean skin and cups his pert ass, squeezing when the little wolf huffs impatiently. Tormund gives him a little teeth, scraping biting kisses down his spine and across his ribs until Jon is squirming, restless and petulant and needy, so fucking needy.   

 “ _Tor –“_ A pause. “ _Fuck.”_

“Close,” Tormund says lightly, “but I’m gonna need more than that, Jon.”

Finally, he reaches for Jon’s arms, knocking him down to his chest in the rumpled sheets. Tormund pulls them back, keeping his wrists locked in one hand, and sinks down to bite over the globe of his ass, sucking at his skin ‘til he tastes iron. He sucks lazy bruises over one cheek and then nuzzles into the cleft of his ass, grip tightening when Jon’s arms twitch and spasm.

“Fuck, _oh_ , fuck –“

He laves his tongue over the little wolf and Jon gasps, muscles clenching as he spreads his legs wider, the heady stench of need spiking high in the air. Tormund hums against him, pressing his tongue over him until he can breach him, and Jon utters a curse that all but punches from his chest.

The little wolf’s cock is leaking all over the sheets, leaving wet spots that Tormund will smell for days. He moans against Jon and the little wolf ruts helplessly down against nothing, no friction coming to give him relief as Tormund works him open with his tongue. He could spend hours like this, spend hours learning every twitch he can pull from Jon, spend days memorizing every sound he makes, every hitch of his breath.

But his wolf is desperate to claim, and there’s a bite mark in Jon’s neck that he wants to taste. Tormund leans back, drinking in the flush over Jon’s shoulders, and he squeezes the little wolf's hip reassuringly.

“Color?”

“ _Green_ , fuck, so green.”

Tormund hums, beyond pleased.

“You stay,” he orders, “understand?”

“I –“

He brings a hand over Jon’s ass, and the little wolf’s initial cry of shock rolls down into a keening whine.

“Understand?”

“ _Yes,_ fuck.”

Tormund slides away to dig for lube in the nightstand, and when he turns back around, Jon is watching him with a challenging gleam in his eyes. One of his hands is on his cock and the other grips the sheets, and the sheer level of his impertinence makes his spine surge with electric fire. The alpha circles the bed and Jon has a constant growl rolling in his chest, hitching into a purr when Tormund slides onto the bed beside him.

“What did I say?” he murmurs against Jon’s ear, and the little wolf’s spine arches when he reaches down to grab his wrist, stilling his hand over his red cock. “What did I tell you, sweet thing?”

“To stay.”

“Mm.”

He drags Jon’s arm away, pins it to his lower back, and this time lands three firm smacks over the globe of his ass. Jon cries out and strains against the hold this time and though he’s stronger as a wolf, he’s not nearly as strong as the alpha. Perhaps he will become one, and perhaps his strength will grow, but Tormund will always be stronger.

“Color, sweet thing?”

“Green,” Jon gasps, voice wavering now, and Tormund’s nostrils flare as his cock weeps heavily over the sheets. “Oh, _fuck –“_

He’s got the ghost of Tormund’s hand glowing on his ass and his bite over his throat. Jon Snow is _his,_ and if he wants it proven, he’ll get it. Tormund warms lube between his fingers and slides a thigh under Jon, draping him over his lap with ease.

“I want to hear it,” he murmurs as he slides a finger into Jon, “I want to hear every sound you make. I want to _feel_ every sound you make, sweet thing.”

Jon is about to bite out something snippy, he can tell, and so he crooks his finger inside him and the little wolf keens instead as he rubs over his prostate. Jon’s hips jump, and his cock is trapped between his belly and Tormund’s thigh, pulsing with need he swears he can taste. He releases his arm then and moves his free hand to cup the front of Jon’s throat as he dips a second finger past the clutch of his muscle.

“You’re doing so well, little wolf,” he praises softly, feels Jon swallow thickly against his palm; “you’re so good for me when you want something, aren’t you? So fucking good.”

Jon’s face flushes with it, and he knew it would be harder to love him than it was to punish him. Tormund leans in and scents him as he works him open, agonizingly slow, just glancing over his prostate enough for him to want it but not enough to make him feel it.

“Tor,” Jon’s voice cracks in two, “oh, fuck –“

“What do you need, sweet thing?”

Jon’s teeth gnash as he tries to curl close, and Tormund tightens his grip over the front of his throat, lets his claws come to press gently to his porcelain skin. Jon whines and his hips stutter; he’s so wet, and Tormund is drunk on it, drunk on the way his body glimmers with needy sweat and his cock keeps weeping, weeping so heavily he might as well be coming undone.

“Please,” the little wolf manages finally, and it’s like heaven, hearing him beg; “ _please,_ I need – I need you to fucking _touch_ me, or –“

“Or what, sweet thing?”

Tormund presses into his prostate as he adds a third finger and Jon practically sobs with it. He gasps and chokes and whimpers, and his scent spikes with a desire that makes his mouth water. Tormund presses his thumb over his lips and Jon licks at it, sucks it between his teeth and moans as he milks pleasure from the bundle of nerves inside him.

“Or what, Jon Snow?” he breathes against his hair, and Jon groans so deep it makes the bed vibrate.

“Nothing,” he whines, “nothing, _nothing_ – I just – want this, want you, oh, _fuck_ you feel so –“

A grin unfurls across his face, heat through his chest, and Tormund thinks this is what it means to swallow sunlight. He purrs against Jon’s hair and sweeps his thumb over his pulse, a rapid, trapped fluster in his throat.

“You want so badly to be good for me, don’t you?”

“ _Tor.”_

“Tell me, sweet thing.”

  
He drags his fingers back and Jon sobs with it, hips straining frantically down against his thigh. Tormund’s cock is beyond hard now, and the fever in him is starting to creep into his human instinct now; he’s not going to be able to keep himself from taking Jon for much longer, especially when he whines and tries a few times to speak before he does.

“ _Yes_ , fuck, yes, I want to be good, _please_ –“

“Color, little wolf.”

“G – green.”

A low, pleased growl shudders down his chest. Tormund’s control is something he prides himself on, but it’s about to snap like too-thin glass. He rubs over Jon’s prostate and the little wolf shouts, the sound ripped out of his throat.

“Good boy,” he purrs, “that’s it. I know you can do it. Come for me, sweet thing.”

“Tor –“

“Come on, Jon. I know you can. You're going to come just like this because I want you to, and what I want, sweet thing, I  _get."_

  
He ducks down then to growl savagely against his ear, and that’s all it takes. Jon comes with a ragged, hoarse shout and Tormund grins, feeling feral with it. He doesn’t wait for Jon to rut through the aftershocks and flips him onto his back, slicking himself up as the little wolf keens and curls his legs tight around his hips.

"Are you desperate for it, sweet thing?” he asks again, voice alpha-rough, and his control is quickly slipping, fangs curving from his gums, nail-beds splitting to make claws. “Are you desperate enough, my little wolf?"

“ _Yes,”_ Jon hisses between his teeth. He’s painted in his own seed and reeking of Tormund, and when he sinks into him he doesn't think he's ever beheld anything more beautiful than him.

He snarls behind his teeth and bows over Jon, pinning his wrists beside his head as he fucks into him. Jon doesn’t stay passive, and he never thought he would. He ruts up as much as he can, keening sweet and high, groaning throaty and low. His hips roll and twist and Tormund buries his face against his throat, right over the slick scar of his turning bite, and he thinks _this is mine_ with a fervor that might be bordering on zealotry.

Jon digs his claws into Tormund’s back and makes savage sounds as he drags them down, calling a pain forth that shoots right down to his belly and morphs into a pleasure so blinding he thinks he might roar with it. Jon laughs with a thrill behind it, and it morphs into a keen as he arches up, throwing his head back as his cock comes back to life between their bodies.

“Tor,” he calls, a hymn that falls over his shoulders, “oh, _fuck,_ oh – you feel – I can _feel you –“_

“ _Yes,”_ he bites out against Jon’s ear, “ _mine.”_

Jon’s fangs glint when he groans, and his eyes are silver when they flash open, calling gold to the surface of his own. It burns and blurs, and Jon surges up to crush their mouths together, heedless of the sharp teeth that makes them beasts. He tastes of blood and need and of _Jon,_ a flavor all his own that Tormund will always chase.

He puts his mouth to the bite mark then, lips slick with blood and spit, and Jon fists a hand into the plume of his red hair.

“Do it,” he snarls, wild and feral, “do it. I want to feel it.”

If there was one thing he always knew, it’s that he never could really say no to him. Tormund sinks his teeth into the skin and the cry of sheer ecstasy that his bite pulls from Jon punches his orgasm from him with a suddenness that leaves him breathless.

He ruts into Jon, hard and quick, and the little wolf pumps his own cock until he’s spurting between them with a series of filthy, needy keens that burrow beneath Tormund’s skin and shatter there.

Blood on his lips making him dizzy, Tormund ducks to lick Jon’s belly clean. He growls with the real voice of the wolf, a sharp, cracking thing that makes him want to curl his lip, and Jon slides his hands through his hair as he moans his name like it’s the only prayer he knows.

Tormund slides his arms around Jon, still seated inside him even as he starts to go soft. He hauls him up and over his thighs, chest blooming with light, and Jon sweeps the blood from his lips before he leans in to kiss him so deep it makes Tormund’s cock twitch.

So this is what it means to have a mate. His mind is fogged with instinct and pheromones, his belly churning with the need just to _feel_ him. Pleasure is a sweet byproduct of their fucking; all he cares about is having Jon around him, having his scent all over him, his taste over his tongue.

All he cares about is the way Jon looks at him.

“Going to fuck you again.” It comes out rougher than sandpaper. “Never wanna let you leave this den, sweet thing.”

“What about the hunt?” Jon drags his lips lazily over his cheekbone. “You promised to run with me. I want you to chase me, pin me down –“

Tormund’s hips strain up and Jon gasps, thighs clenching against him.

“You want to fuck me under the full moon,” the little wolf purrs then. “I know you do.”

“When the bodies of the cunts that tried to take you are cold in the ground,” he says, pumping his hips up into him, “I’ll take you to the wild, fuck you in the light of the sacred moon.”

Jon curls his arms around his neck, panting sweet and high against his ear. Tormund grips his ass and hauls him close, drops biting kisses over his strong shoulder and rocks up into Jon until he’s coming again, seated so deep he thinks Jon might taste it.

The little wolf groans quiet and soft when he gently draws out of him, smelling sated and well-fucked and content. It’s like velvet under his hands, and Jon grins blearily when he sweeps him up into his arms to carry him to the bathroom.

“Don’t know if I can stand, just a warning. Oh.”

Tormund sits on the lip of the bath beside the shower, keeping Jon in his lap with one hand curled around the nape of his neck. It’s a deep basin of clean white porcelain, gone hugely unused until now. He doesn’t want his little wolf trying to stand, and the heat of the water will do his muscles good.

The instinct to _soothe-heal-gentle_ overwhelms any lingering need in his belly, and Tormund revels in the comfortable silence they share as the bath fills. He kisses over Jon’s neck, over the scars of his bite, the new wounds he made already healed over. Jon curls up into his chest, making himself small, lax and boneless against him.

“Oh, fuck,” Jon groans when they finally sink into the water, and the little wolf briefly vanishes beneath the water before he pops back up, pushing his wild black curls back.

Tormund gathers him back to his chest so he’s sat between his legs, and Jon’s head lolls against his huge shoulder, right over the tattoo of a bear’s skull. Those warm eyes flicker over his face and Jon reaches up to tug at his tapered beard, a smile curling over his lips.

“Could’ve been doing that for ages.”

“We have time,” Tormund says softly, sweeping his thumb over Jon’s lip to sweep blood away. “All the time in the world.”

“Never really been good at being selfish.” Jon noses over his throat. “But I’m gonna be really selfish with you.”

“It’s expected with mates, sweet thing. You’re allowed to have what you want.”

“I have it.”

Tormund curls his fingers through Jon’s sleek, wet hair and kisses over his brow, bringing palmfuls of water over his throat to wash away the remaining blood. Jon hums low and his heartbeat begins to even out, slowing as he drifts off against his chest. Just when he thinks Jon’s asleep, however, the little wolf huffs.

“I thought it was Val,” he mutters, and Tormund arches a brow. “I thought she was your – your mate. Before.”

“Christ.” Tormund huffs. “A pair of fools, aren’t we?”

“Probably. But we got there in the end. You’ve let me in and fed me and fucked me until I couldn’t walk, Tor. You’re never fucking getting rid of me now.”

“Good,” he growls. “Probably go feral if you left.”

“I’ve seen you feral. Wouldn’t want that,” Jon mutters, and even Tormund’s starting to feel the pull of exhaustion now. There’s a soft silence, then; “are we werewolf-married now?”

Tormund tips his head back, laughter gathering in his throat. “ _Where_ do you get this shit? ‘ _Werewolf married’_?”

“Forgive me, I’ve never had a mate before.”

“You had me the entire time.”

“You know what I meant.”

“We’re not – _Jesus Christ._ We have ceremonies for this, sweet thing.” He laughs then, deep and warm, and Jon shoots him a narrow glance that Tormund wipes away with a kiss. “You’re incredible.”

 “You’re – incredible,” Jon mumbles, ears going red, and Tormund grins against the crown of his head, warmth suffusing his body down to the marrow of his bones.

Jon Snow has taken to being a wolf with more grace than anyone he’s ever known, and it’s because he is a wolf who became a man, not the other way around. He is a wolf who became a man, and against all odds, he is his.

**Author's Note:**

> gimme by banks is THE sub!jon snow song dkjfbhjakldj


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